


The Secret in His Eyes

by cywscross



Series: "___ Me" Drabble Prompts [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Stiles Stilinski, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03A, Pre-Slash, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-07-12 21:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7122646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the chaotic mess with the Alpha Pack, nobody realizes Stiles was bitten. Even if they did, Stiles doubts anything would have changed.</p><p>That’s alright. After Scott lets Deucalion go, Stiles simply lies in wait for the so-called Demon Wolf at the edge of town, and in the dark of night, a wolfsbane bullet puts the werewolf down, and as Deucalion draws his last breath, Stiles’ eyes flare a bright blood red.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nezstorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nezstorm/gifts).



> _bxdcubes said: Tell me with steter, please? <3_
> 
>  
> 
> Damn, it got longer than I wanted it to be. Ah well.

 

Stiles skips school for a week, busying himself with finding an anchor and then holing himself in Beacon Hills’ forests over the weekend in order to figure out what he can do now aside from howling at the moon and chowing down on fluffy bunnies.

As it turns out, he can do a lot.  First thing’s first, he has a sit down and a chat with his wolf.  The creature – _still Stiles_ – is a curious thing, wary of the world but inquisitive, like a newborn but not.  The wolf is Stiles stripped down to bare essentials, to instinct and emotion and a wild, ferocious sort of beauty.  When Stiles pokes at it, in their shared mind space, it pokes back, and they circle each other suspiciously until Stiles the human throws up his hands in exasperation and takes a step towards it, and Stiles the wolf snorts and also presses forward, confident in its strength, even more confident in its welcome.

And Stiles does welcome it.  For better or for worse, he’s a werewolf now, and he’d much rather it be for the better.  His wolf agrees because it knows as well as Stiles does that they will always be more powerful working together than apart, than  _against_ , and when it comes down to it, Stiles the human and Stiles the wolf aren’t so different – survival is key in a town that most days seems like it’s out to get all of them; then find something to protect, to defend, with their life if need be, with their heart and body and soul because that is how Stiles has always lived, and likewise, that is the core essence of what an Alpha should stand for.  Both of them understand this instinctively, they understand what makes each other tick, what motivates each other, what strengthens them, what can weaken them, what frightens them, and because they understand, there is no rift to divide them.  The wolf has all of Stiles’ memories, and Stiles has all of the wolf’s intuition; the wolf knows what _not_ to do ( _we are Alpha, but we are also our own; don’t be Peter, don’t be Derek, don’t be Scott, be **us**_ ), and Stiles knows what _to_ do, when he opens his eyes and breathes in the woods, listening to the croon of the wind, the heartbeats of prey, the steadfast pull of the moon, even in broad daylight.

And maybe that’s why Stiles finds it so easy to just… _shift_ , a fluid transition from two legs to four, from bare skin to thick fur, from man to wolf.

He runs for hours.  He thinks he could lose himself in this, in the pounding of his own blood as he races through the trees, in the sweet gushing hot liquid of his first hunt after tracking and bringing down a deer, in every rustle of leaves and scamper of paws and whisper of wildlife around him.

But he doesn’t because he isn’t _only_ wolf.  He is human too, still, just _more_ now, two sides of the same coin, and so Stiles does not forget.  He is beast now, with all the predatory, red in tooth and claw instincts that come with it, but he is also man, with all the complexities of humanity.

He returns to the makeshift den at the hollowed out base of a tree where he first left his clothes, and the moon and stars and swaying branches right outside are perfect for slowly lulling him to sleep.

His ears and nose tell him there is no danger nearby.  His brain mulls their situation over.

They should tell the Sheriff.  They are not only werewolf now, but _Alpha_ , and while Stiles is unwilling to challenge Scott for the territory, Wolf insists on having their own space, to claim, to guard, to run, to mate, to flourish.  Perhaps not right now, because Stiles is still a pup, Wolf is still a pup, but in a few years, depending on how well the local pack is holding Beacon Hills, they should either challenge or leave and make their own way.

Stiles worries a little about that, about how pragmatically decisive his wolf is about weighing the pros and cons of either assuming command of the town’s other supernatural residents or chasing them out, but at the same time, he understands.

He understands because when he looks inward, searching, and then searching again, he can’t find a single pack bond waiting for him.

Wolves and wolf-adjacents are either Pack or not-Pack, and not-Pack are either allies or enemies, and neither of those are people with whom they should share territory with.  In Wolf’s vocabulary, there is no friend.  Friends are flimsy things; Pack is forever.

Or, it should be.  ( _Don’t be Laura either.  Don’t even be Talia if that is what she instilled in her daughter-successor._ )

But either way, before Stiles builds a pack, perhaps even before they tell the Sheriff, they need to be _capable_.  If they can’t even protect themselves, protecting others isn’t possible.

He curls up and drapes his tail over his nose.  He can think more about it tomorrow.  For now, he, they, wolf, man, sleeps.

 

* * *

 

Stiles spends another day in the woods, adjusting to his newly heightened senses, to his claws and fangs and penchant for getting distracted whenever he hears a mouse in the underbrush or a thrush in the branches above.  He takes a dip in a lake, relieved when he finds out he can still swim, then spends the next hour finding out how far.

He goes hunting again – he _does_ have to eat – and this time it’s rabbit.  He tried duck first but – embarrassingly enough – it escaped.  His wolf sulks until they stumble on a couple of fat brown rabbits to snack on.

Night falls and they leave the forest.  The wolf falls back, the human comes forward, and Stiles walks home in somewhat rumpled clothing.

The house is dark and empty when he lets himself in.  His dad is at the station again, catching up on work.  He’s hungry again so he orders a pizza.  He munches on that while sitting on his bathroom counter, practicing switching his eye colour back and forth in the mirror.

He doesn’t stop until he has total control over it.

 

* * *

 

Stiles has considered the possibility; heck, he’s expecting it when he walks into English on Monday morning, Scott, Allison, and Lydia already there.

It still throws him a little though, how strong the urge is, because the moment he lays eyes on Scott, his mind snarls _Alpha_ , and he has to focus on even, shallow breaths as he takes his seat, because he can smell the stench of weakness in the air, he can sense how out of sync Scott is with his wolf, and he even has the memories of how much of an Alpha Scott is _not_ , True or otherwise, and it’s all Stiles can do to keep his claws sheathed, his eyes brown, his lips dammed over the fangs fighting to make an appearance.

Stiles would win, if he challenged Scott, right here and now.  The fact that Scott has been a werewolf for months while Stiles has only been one for a week wouldn’t matter.   He knows it down to his very bones.

He takes another breath and very firmly tells his wolf to settle down.  Scott is friend, brother.

( _Scott is not-Pack_ , his wolf scoffs.)

If nothing else, Scott is harmless.

( _With lives that depend on him, he_ cannot _be harmless_ , his wolf snaps.  _A harmless Alpha is a useless Alpha._ )

They calm down, just enough.  It helps that Allison is here, smelling of wolfsbane and gun oil and threat.  Scott may have forgiven her for following in her grandpa’s footsteps, but Stiles remembers pain and fists and bruises and blood, remembers _helplessness_ , remembers Gerard in the basement and Allison and Chris upstairs; he will not forget.

He supposes it also helps that his seat is a row away from theirs, and that Scott and Allison are lost in their own little world again and never even noticed Stiles walking in.  Lydia tips a distracted smile at him when he catches her eye, and Stiles wonders if maybe she could be Pack.  Scott has Allison and Isaac, although whether he has them to the point of a pack bond with each of them, Stiles doesn’t know.  He might also have Derek if he ever comes back, although Stiles is certain there’s no pack bond there since Scott once served Derek up on a silver platter to Gerard.

But Stiles doesn’t think Lydia has thrown in her lot with Scott yet, and Scott hasn’t made any real effort to forge a pack bond with the banshee.

It bears thinking about.

The bell rings, much to Stiles’ relief.  Concentrating on class helps him focus, for once.  Or at least it helps him _not_ focus on Scott.

His wolf grumbles about it but soon loses interest when it becomes clear Stiles won’t be slashing Scott’s throat out anytime soon.

 _Friend could mean ally_ , it eventually decides grudgingly.  _Although he doesn’t make a very good ally._

Stiles just sighs.  It’s almost like having a split personality in his head.  A very opinionated personality.

He manages to get through the whole day without flashing his eyes even once, which he counts as a smashing success.  He’s been tense all day despite his wolf’s impatient reassurances that it won’t do anything to draw unwanted attention to them.

After school, on his way to his jeep, a few bullies roughly knock shoulders with him.  Usually, this would tumble Stiles into the nearest lockers.  Today, Stiles watches with raised eyebrows as both idiots stagger back and fall on their asses like they’ve hit a wall.

Huh.  Handy.

Stiles steps past them, mind already on other things.  His wolf doesn’t kick up a fuss either.  Even before Stiles became a werewolf, bullies were more or less non-entities for him.  Most knew not to mess with him and by extension Scott.  Only Jackson and his cronies needed to be put in their places every few months when they escalated all because Stiles never really reacted to their jeers and shoves.

Now, as an apex supernatural predator, the Alpha in Stiles considers them so far beneath him on the food chain that they aren’t even on his radar anymore.  Annoying, but ultimately not remotely dangerous in the greater scheme of things.

He drives home.  Walks around barefoot, flexing his claws, just because he can.  Does his homework, then drives out to the woods to hunt and train again, improving his reflexes, his senses, his control.

Home, school, woods, back home again.  It becomes routine.

 

* * *

 

“Hello, Stiles.”

Peter appears at his elbow like a silent jack-in-the-box, and if Stiles didn’t already hear and smell him coming, he would’ve jumped out of his skin and possibly clawed up the other werewolf’s face a bit too for good measure.

The man would deserve it.

“What.”  Stiles asks flatly, head propped in one hand, mind all but glazed over with utter boredom as he watches Scott and Chris discuss – and that’s putting it politely considering the increasingly heated argument brewing between them – what they’re going to do about the latest threat in Beacon Hills.  Allison, Isaac, Lydia, and their newest number Kira are hovering around them, exchanging looks that range from anxious (Kira) to irritated (Lydia).

It’s been three months since Stiles was bitten.  Winter break is coming up next week, and there’s a chill in the air that tickles his nose every time he goes out.  On the bright side, he barely needs a thin sweater over a shirt before trekking outside, perfectly comfortable in the cold weather.

Scott’s voice rises.  So does Chris’.  The latter wants to go after those witches Scott told to leave.  The former retorts that said witches have promised not to sacrifice anymore people, and it wouldn’t be fair if they go and kill the witches anyway after Scott promised them safe passage out of town.

Stiles idly wonders what Scott would say if he realizes Stiles has already killed all three of them, cut them in half, burnt their bodies, and scattered the ashes in separate graves.  They’ve had their chances.  Eight people are dead because of them, and that’s just in Beacon Hills.  If they’d managed nine like they were planning, the town wouldn’t even exist anymore.  But Stiles and the others managed to corner them, and as per usual, Scott let them go.  Then they had the gall to try and sneak back in in the middle of the night.

They weren’t expecting to bump into another Alpha at the border.  It was the last mistake they ever made.

Chris of course isn’t happy with Scott’s decision.  He wasn’t around for the final showdown against the witches or he probably would’ve spoken up then.  So now they argue.  What a waste of an afternoon.

Stiles should’ve taken a miss but Lydia preempted him by practically skewering him with a glare, apparently well-versed in Stiles’ tendency to ditch pack meetings and therefore ditch _her_ with the plebeians, but at least she goes because of Allison.  Lydia knows as well as he does that Stiles doesn’t actually need to be there unless Scott needs research done.

So now he’s stuck here, debating walking out anyway no matter how much Lydia will glower at him for it later.  In the next moment however, he senses more than feels something approaching the back of his neck, and his free hand is up and brambled around Peter’s wrist a second before the werewolf’s fingers can graze his skin.

He turns his head, staring straight into a far too intent expression.

Peter’s been… strange.  Stranger than usual.  Creepier than usual.  He keeps popping up wherever Stiles happens to be at the time, whether that’s in the coffee shop or the grocery store or even during his usual stroll through the woods, which is annoying because it means that Stiles always has to keep an ear out for Peter, shifting back and scrambling into his clothes if hears the man coming.  The last has only been occurring over the past month or so but Peter is… persistent.  He pretty much invites himself to Stiles’ Sunday mornings, which he typically occupies with several hours’ worth of reading in his favourite coffee shop.  It’s gotten so bad that Stiles actually _looks_ for the guy if Peter is late, and whoever arrives first automatically buys the drinks.  And if the man stumbles on Stiles at the supermarket, Peter seems to take it as explicit permission to _buy their groceries together_.

And more and more often these days, Peter no longer has to be cajoled and nagged and borderline ordered by Scott to do research with Stiles.  Admittedly, they work well together, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t still a bit weird.

 _Especially_ because Stiles is pretty sure he’s getting _used to it_.  At the very least, his wolf side no longer regards Peter as an enemy, and by this point, the man’s scent – earth and autumn and some kind of tea – is soothingly comforting in its familiarity.  Which in Stiles’ opinion isn’t very wise, but it’s surprisingly hard to keep up the hate for a guy who crochets during their weekly coffee shop rendezvous.  The bastard even made Stiles a hat and a pair of gloves.  And it’s a _nice_ hat and pair of gloves.

This though.  This is new.

Stiles studies the limb in his grasp.  It would be easy to break it, to bleed it.  He looks back at Peter, who watches him with a faint smirk on his lips and bright blue eyes.

It’s times like this that he wonders if Peter knows.  If anyone has both the intimate knowledge of a werewolf’s posture and physical mannerisms, as well as the observation skills to pick out all the micro-movements that Stiles is undoubtedly unable to hide, it would be Peter Hale.

Hell, it wouldn’t even be that hard.  If people actually paid any sort of genuine attention to him, they’d notice the fact that Stiles no longer trips or flails, and Coach is probably trying to find some blackmail on him to force him back on the team ever since Stiles quit but his gym grade – in contrast – has never been better.

Of course, he still throws in the occasional clumsy ass-over-teakettle fall, and he’s as sarcastic as ever, so maybe that’s why nobody’s caught on.

Nobody, with the probable exception of a certain former serial killer.

Stiles slowly relinquishes his grip.  Peter retrieves his arm but doesn’t move otherwise.  Too late, Stiles realizes his mistake – the werewolf isn’t bruised but there was a show of strength in there somewhere, one that a mere human could never have displayed.

“Peter,” Stiles says, and it’s low with warning.

Peter just smiles beatifically, all false innocence soaked in sin.

“Stiles,” He purrs back, and his expression is triumph gilded with hunger.

They stare at each other some more.

“When did you find out?”  Stiles relents at last.

Peter’s smile sharpens.  “At the first little-” He flicks a scornfully dismissive hand at the room at large.  “-pack meeting we had after the Alpha Pack mess.  You _prowl_ these days, sweetheart.  Might want to work on that.”  He shrugs elegantly.  “It’s easy enough to spot if you know what to look for, and I grew up surrounded by werewolves.”

His gaze goes all honed and sharp on Stiles’ face again.  “But your control is excellent.  Almost no obvious slips at all, even at the beginning.  A fang here, a few claws there when you were frustrated, but not a single flash of the eyes that I ever saw.”  Amusement mixed with an uncomfortable amount of admiration flits across his features.  “I knew you would make a magnificent werewolf, Stiles.”

Stiles snorts, casting an absent eye back at the others.  None of them have noticed his and Peter’s exchange, too absorbed in their conflicting issues.

“A pity Scott let Deucalion and those twins go,” Peter murmurs slyly, finally moving so that he’s sitting beside Stiles on the couch.  “I presume one of them bit you?  Was it Deucalion?  Ennis died quite a while before, Kali seemed the sort to simply kill you, and I honestly cannot see the twins overpowering you even back when you were still human.  Deucalion seems the most likely candidate.”  His mouth twists a little.  “But I rather doubt Scotty would’ve let you kill him, even for a chance at becoming human again.  He can be quite the hypocrite that way, can’t he?”

“…You and I both know that’s just a myth,” Stiles says, side-eyeing Peter.  “The whole kill the Alpha that bit you and become human again.  It’s a dumb myth too.”

“Easily disproven, a long time ago,” Peter agrees, smirking.  “But Scott wouldn’t have known that, would he?”

He lounges back, shoulder brushing Stiles’ and making no move to pull away, mingled scent and close proximity both.

( _Pack?  Is this Pack?_ )

Stiles doesn’t move away either, because he… doesn’t want to, but also because… well.

Looks like Peter hasn’t noticed _everything_ after all.

 

* * *

 

In the end, it comes out anyway, a few weeks later in the early days of the new year.  They were shopping again, and now they’re loading their respective bags into Peter’s car because apparently, it’s come to this – sharing vehicles out of convenience since they buy vegetables and eggs together anyway.

It’s dark, and she must have blocked her scent and heartbeat somehow, so they don’t notice her coming until she’s practically on top of them.

Peter spots movement that shouldn’t be there, and he’s spinning around in a second, tackling Stiles in the next as a witch plunges a knife at the spot where Stiles was a moment ago.

They hit the ground together just as the witch whirls to face them with a furious screech, hair a wild tangle on her head, eyes crazed as she lunges for Stiles again.

“You killed them!”  She shrieks.

Peter rolls to the left, Stiles rolls to the right.  Peter lashes out at the nearest part of the witch, only to swear when whatever her clothing is made of almost makes him chip a claw, and he receives nothing except a nasty grin from the woman.

She attacks him this time, deflecting his claws with a clothed forearm and darting forward with more speed than Peter anticipates.  He throws himself back as far as he can but braces for the swipe of a blade anyway.  With any luck, it’ll be shallow-

And then the deep, unmistakeable, shattering tones of an Alpha's enraged roar splinters the nighttime silence into a million pieces and makes the very ground tremble.  The witch lurches, a flicker of alarm crossing her features even as she turns to confront the bigger threat, but it’s too late.

Even Peter only catches a glimpse of crimson red eyes before a gorgeous, red-brown, hulking mass of fully shifted wolf barrels into the witch and slams her into the ground.  A glint of white teeth is followed by the beginning wail of a scream, only for it to be cut short by a gurgle as those jaws snap shut, a windpipe meeting its end between them with a distinctive crunch.

For a long minute, Peter’s fairly certain he’s forgotten how to breathe.  He stays motionless as the huge russet-coloured wolf lifts its head from its kill, muzzle splattered with blood, and proceeds to meander over to Peter.

It whuffs in Peter’s face, an enquiring noise that Peter understands to be concern.

An incredulous laugh trips out of his mouth, surprised and delighted at the same time.  He gazes with wonder into vividly crimson eyes, _Alpha_ eyes, and apparently, even after all that time spent observing Stiles and – alright – stalking him and worming into his good graces, Peter still managed to miss the most significant change about him.

Gradually, fur recedes and bones shift, and the wolf melts back to boy, naked and pale under the moonlight.  Beautiful.  He’s entirely human like this, save the eyes.  Those remain tinged with red.

Stiles holds out a hand.  “ _You’re_ clearly fine.  Give me your hanky; I have blood in my mouth.”

Peter rolls his eyes but obligingly fishes out his _handkerchief_ and passes it over.

“You’re an Alpha,” Peter says, and he knows he’s stating the obvious, but it’s worth saying.  “You already killed Deucalion.  Probably the very same night Scott let him go.”

“Yup,” Stiles wipes away the last of the blood, and when he lowers the handkerchief, a dark edge remains in the curve of his lips.  “The fucking bastard bit me.  I can hold a grudge.”

 _That, I know_ , Peter thinks, sardonic and appreciative in equal measure.

He looks at Stiles again, really looks, and wonders how he could’ve missed this.

This, the very thing he’s been considering, turning over and over in the privacy of his mind, perhaps even hoping for.

There is still red in Stiles’ eyes.  _Alpha_ , says the steady calm in them, a gaze that commands both attention and respect without a single word ever spoken.

He recalls what the witch shouted earlier.  No wonder Stiles’ scent is all over the borders of Beacon Hills.  The boy – _Alpha_ – has been walking them for months now, patrolling, defending, protecting.  No wonder the overall death rate’s gone down because it certainly isn’t because of _Scott_.

“Peter?”  Stiles’ eyebrows rise in question.

Peter breathes in, then out, then in again.  And then, carefully, deliberately, desperation and hope a knotted ball in his gut, he tilts his head and bares the stretch of his throat.

Stiles’ breath hitches but that’s the only sound he releases.  Both their hearts are hammering away in their chests.

For a long moment, neither of them moves.  Peter has to stomp down the overwhelming urge to run, to flee, because he doesn’t think he’ll be able to handle rejection.

( _Again.  Always.  No matter what he does._ )

But then, there’s a hand at his neck, at his throat, curling around the side of it, warm and firm and possessive in a way that makes something in Peter’s chest ache.  Stiles reels him in, and Peter goes willingly, burying his face in his Alpha’s neck even as Stiles does the same, with teeth that close right over the tendons, and Peter goes limp even as a hoarse, rusty choke of a purr catches in his throat.

Stiles doesn’t break skin, but the pressure there is still reassuring, dominance and claim and a fierce sense of _mine_ all rolled into one.

They’re in an almost empty parking lot with a dead body a few feet away and groceries in the car.  But also too, there’s an arm slung warm around Peter’s back, and Stiles’ scent – winds after a rainstorm, coffee and youth – is a heady blend all around him.

He’s happy staying like this, even just for a little while longer, and if the smile Stiles presses against his neck is anything to go by, his Alpha doesn’t mind either.

 


	2. Post-Fic: Settling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That very same night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I accidentally drabbled.

 

That very same night, after they finish burying the witch’s remains, they go back to Peter’s apartment.  Peter practically hovers the entire time, dutifully following at Stiles’ shoulder, even brushing his teeth while Stiles is in the shower, his Alpha’s heartbeat thumping reassuringly in his ears.

New pack bonds always heighten the urge to stay close.  Or so Peter’s heard.  He had Pack since the moment he was born so he’s never had to go through the process of consciously bonding with a new packmate in a brand-new pack.  He felt a glimmer of that urge with Scott, but Scott was an accident, an ill fit in the pack Peter wanted, and not even just because of his _morals_ , which was already enough to drive Peter even further around the bend, but also because Scott didn’t possess the brand of absolute, world-burning loyalty Peter needed.  The boy didn’t possess much loyalty, period, not where it counted, and he certainly wasn’t dependable.

Peter can deal with not-particularly-smart, he can deal with not-particularly-strong and not-particularly-cunning and even not-particularly-ethically-flexible.  What he can’t deal with are people who put their dicks and a pretty face above Pack, whose priorities are never what they should be, who never learn and therefore will never be _reliable_.  You can’t trust people like that, and considering both Derek and Scott – the only other Alphas Beacon Hills has had since Peter – are _exactly_ that unreliable, Peter cannot _begin_ to articulate how relieved he is that there is now a third, infinitely better, and – in his opinion - only option open to him.

Stiles knows loyalty, knows it like Peter does, with a ruthless ferocity to back it up, and that’s something Peter can trust.

Speaking of, Stiles steps out of the shower, steam curling out after him.  He pauses when he sees Peter, but Peter can’t even muster up any embarrassment when he realizes he’s gravitated to perching on the closed toilet seat right next to the shower stall after he finished brushing his teeth.

Stiles doesn’t look put-off or even surprised.  He just finishes wrapping a towel around his waist, and then he bends over a little, one hand balancing his weight on Peter’s shoulder as he ducks down and briefly presses their cheeks together.

It startles a purr out of Peter even as he scents back eagerly, his wolf content and calm for once with having someone so close to all their vulnerable parts.

And then Stiles pulls back and prods him up.  “Shower, Peter.  You still smell like that witch and ashes.”

Peter sniffs haughtily but he’s already stripping out of his shirt.  “Well _someone_ wanted to run around half the night carrying dead body parts all over the woods.”

Stiles snorts, rummaging around for the floss.  “Don’t front, dude.  You totally agreed with me about chopping up that bitch- I mean witch, and I don’t need Scott on my ass if he finds out what happened to his latest charity cases.”

Peter smothers a snigger, if only because it’s undignified.  He tosses his boxers into the laundry basket and steps into the shower instead.  Hot water pounds down onto his shoulders, and he lets out a satisfied sigh.

“That confrontation is inevitable though,” He murmurs, not bothering to raise his voice above the drum of water because he knows Stiles can hear him now regardless.  He’s never cared that Stiles was human; the boy was lethal even without superhuman senses and the ability to grow fangs and claws, but at the same time, Peter can’t say he isn’t happy that Stiles is a werewolf, and therefore able – and willing – to _feel_ the pack bond between them.  And Peter will be able to show his Alpha other skills too.  Stiles has done a terrifyingly remarkable job of integrating with his wolf side, but Peter was born one, and there’ll be things about being a werewolf that Stiles won’t know yet.

“Not for another year, give or take,” Stiles replies, garbled around a mouthful of toothpaste.  “And who knows where we’ll be then.”

Peter slants a glance at Stiles’ silhouette.  “…We could take him.”

“We could,” Stiles agrees without hesitation, and there isn’t a speck of arrogance there, just a matter-of-fact calculation that makes Peter’s wolf – by association – puff up with pride.  “But it’s not just Scott we’d have to face.  No matter how low your opinion of them is, numbers still count for something, and there isn’t a single one of them who’d fight for me against Scott.  Well, maybe Lydia, but I can’t see her leaving Allison, and Allison will stay with Scott.  Where Allison goes, so goes Chris’ nation.  And you know how dangerous the Argents can be.”

Yes he does.  Peter still dreams of fire and wolfsbane and his family’s screams.  Still dreams of Kate’s blood, slick on his claws, and Gerard choking on poison, black leaking from his eyes and ears and nose and mouth like the rot inside was finally given physical form.

“Besides,” Stiles continues.  “I’d rather keep Scott and the others as allies, even if they’ll think I’ve- I dunno, betrayed them or something by becoming a werewolf.  And an Alpha too, by killing Deucalion.”

Peter all but yanks the shower door open to stick his head out, eyes flashing blue in the foggy mirror.  “Considering how Derek and Scott chose to handle the Alpha Pack and especially Deucalion,” He almost snarls.  “They have _no right_.”

Stiles just shrugs.  His eyes flash red in the reflection, and Peter settles.  “Nope, but d’you really think that’s gonna stop them?  Especially Scott.”

“He wanted to kill _me_ ,” Peter mutters, disgruntled, but he shuts the door again and reaches for the soap instead.  “He was going to kill Gerard.”

“But he didn’t.”

“Only because Derek got there first, and then because Gerard couldn’t – even just once in his life – do the decent thing and _actually die_.”

“Yeah, but he still didn’t, and that’s really all that matters.”  Stiles just sounds resigned now, and it makes Peter’s jaw clench, his claws itching to rip something apart.  He focuses on his pack bond instead, letting the almost tangible existence of it soothe him.

“Scott is a bit of a hypocrite,” Stiles adds mildly, like it’s something he’s always known and has long since accepted.  Like it doesn’t _grate_.

“Only a bit?”  Peter scoffs rhetorically.  He lets the water sluice away the bubbles, enjoying the spray for another minute before finally turning the tap off.

A towel is handed to him when he exits the shower.  He scrubs it over his face, then almost drops it when he lowers it and subsequently finds Stiles – sitting on the counter – decked in a pair of his boxers and one of his shirts, both clean of course but nevertheless mingling his scent with Stiles’.  Peter offered the clothes to him earlier so he probably should’ve expected the veritable gut punch that this image would give him.

When he finally manages to drag his eyes back up, trying not to breathe too deeply, Stiles is already hopping down from the counter and slinking over to nuzzle into Peter’s neck.  Peter’s chin automatically hikes up, baring his throat, huffing a little when he feels Stiles’ smile against his skin.

“Dry off,” Stiles reminds him, rocking back on his heels with a faint smile on his face, so much calmer than Peter remembers from before the boy was bitten.  “I wanna actually get some sleep tonight.”

Peter blinks hard, watching Stiles disappear out the bathroom door, and then he hurriedly pats himself dry and slips on his own pair of boxers, not bothering with a shirt before following Stiles out of the bathroom.

He reasons that Stiles will probably take the spare bedroom.  Even if they’re Pack now, it’s all still very new, instincts aren’t everything, Stiles hasn’t even _been_ to Peter’s apartment before tonight, and Stiles could just mean he wants Peter to pull out the extra set of sheets for him and-

He almost trips out of sheer relief when he finds Stiles already curled up on the right side of Peter’s bed, idly scrolling through his phone.

Stiles must smell it on him because he glances up with a sly grin, twisting onto his back and flashing his belly like a taunt, and without meaning to, Peter growls, playful and without bite even as his wolf surges up, and he’s pouncing before he can consciously stop himself.

Peter barely touches the bed before Stiles has them flipped around, Peter pinned underneath him with ease, Stiles braced above and smirking with a hint of fang.  The Alpha’s hands are warm on Peter’s throat and curled around one bicep, but it’s a reassuring weight instead of a threatening gesture, and Peter finds himself submitting under it, arching slightly when Stiles smooths a hand from arm to shoulder to chest, palm coming to rest right over his heart, but his muscles go lax again when Stiles’ steady gaze catches his.

A rumbling purr rolls up from Stiles’ chest, evidently pleased as he lets go and slips to the side instead, making himself comfortable again, half his limbs still sprawled on top of Peter, a little more cat than canine in this one moment as he curls possessively around Peter’s body.  Peter in turn, wraps an arm around Stiles’ waist, basking in the scents sinking into his bedroom, of _Alpha_ and _Pack_ and _Stiles_.

Their heartbeats sync after a few seconds, slowing to a drowsier tempo, and that doesn’t change even when Stiles releases a lazy chuckle.

“What?”  Peter grunts without opening his eyes.

“Nothing, just-” Stiles’ fingers feather over Peter’s wrist.  “Bet you didn’t expect things to turn out this way, back when we were in that parking garage.”

Peter snorts.  Well, Stiles isn’t wrong.  But, “Neither did you.”

Stiles doesn’t bother denying it.

“Our _lives_ ,” He sighs instead.

Peter’s arm tightens around his Alpha.  “But…?”

Stiles presses another smile into Peter’s shoulder, and his scent goes soft and warm with affection.  Maybe their new bond amplifies the emotion but it’s still genuine, and that’s enough to make Peter relax again.

“Yeah,” Stiles murmurs.  “No regrets.”

They fall asleep like that, twined together.  Neither wakes until morning.

 

**Author's Note:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


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